Why is it the "love" I felt with her
Felt quick, we always remarked
"I can't believe it's been this long
I feel like it was yesterday..."
Yet this "love" I feel with you
Feels slow, but evenly paced.
We always remak
"I can't belive its only been this long
It feels like forever."

tachyphylaxis - tach·y·phy·lax·is (tāk'ə-fĭ-lāk'sĭs)  n.
1.    A rapidly decreasing response to pleasure following initial administration.

I didn’t know this
demon had a name.
Ugly as it is it fits,
a random mish-mash
of unpleasant sounds
and equal unpleasantness
felt.

I’ve known the *******
forever, manifest in vitamin cures
and psychological processes,
SSRI’s and stabilizers.

He attends to the end of
affectionate loving and all
the designer vacations
you've ever taken.

He is the golden handcuffs of
square foot home ownership
and his business cards are
set in silver.

To put it bluntly
his continuous presence
is intent on destruction
of any contentment.

He is all things along the way
that appear so promising at first
but never last.

Synonymous with tolerance,
antonymous with precedence,


the antagonistic leaven of all living.

You love me like twitchy fingers love pulling the trigger,
Not at all, and then all at once;
You replaced arrows with bullets,
And instead of filling with love, my heart poured out blood

You love me like tear gas loves open eyes,
To wish me blind to the things you've done;
You didn't think, you never do think
Can your conscious be clear if you don't have one?

You loved me like metal loves a microwave,
To make it spark and set fire;
Carelessness is antonymous with admiration,
And you always did admire destruction

Never ask a poet what they think
about the things that matter.
They will not give a definite answer
for their hearts tend to ache
somewhat too severely
and even then some things
are better left unsaid
unfinished
in a black and white world
where any shade of grey is a crime
somewhere over the rainbow
in a place where it is the safest
to not be there at all
or else you are certainly the one to blame
even if the lace is buried deep within
your overwhelming guilt and shame
hidden under all the what ifs and pleats
and somewhere deeper yet
there is the quietest of voices
too afraid to speak of the bruises
left on the inside of her thighs
and within her heart
the voice of reason that tells you
please don’t walk down that alley
keep your friends close
and the keys in your hand closer
keep your head up high
and your hopes down low
or whatever else makes sense
in this dog eat dog world
where everything you will ever know
will be shredded and recycled
oh, if only
to be crushed into a pulp
and spoon-fed to another generation
diluted with careful consideration
into a day-in day-out nine to five
not even a cog in the machine
a ***** at best
and you will be *******
tightened up more and more
until you can’t hold it together
and whatever it takes
falls apart into pieces
broken glass on the asphalt
a hole in the wall
that sinking feeling
where a soul should be
but the angels don’t visit anymore
or answer our prayers
the line is always busy
there is always something else
something more important
a bullet in the bible
escalating into emergency
but who is out there for the unarmed boy
dying on the sidewalk
misjudged for the colour of his skin
who is out there to stop the hand of a father
suspended in mid-air
with the children cowering at his feet
who is out there for the American dream
turning into a global nightmare
who can tell the pending future
staring down the barrel of the gun
wondering which side you should be on
and what of that which you call freedom
only to trade it for martyrdom
what of candour and justice
and their antonymous nature
what of the artists and the poets
and everyone else that took a shot
but didn’t even come close
living in a daydream
playing from the same broken record
telling us that there is meaning
and there is worth in the things we do
except that from time to time
the needle would skip
distorting the vision
and at times like these
it’s the easiest to look away
for every scratch on the surface of reality
encourages you simply to
pull the trigger

No.
I will not, I refuse
to let this get the best of me.
The pen is a blade. I slit my wrist
and pour my heart out onto the page
instead. This is a sacrifice
I am willing to make.
I will tear myself apart
on my own terms.
If I cannot do it myself,
who else will?

I feel as though
I'm ever so synonymous
To mute
Antonymous to clangorous
I can't seem to transform
These inner vibrations into
The complicated English language
My voice is a broken record
Of "I'm fine"s
My head is permanently inside
A box
With a Polaroid of a smiling me
Smack dab on the front
Never budging at the slightest tear
But, this box is somewhat
Generous
Because every now and then
It'll let me make slits
Where my eyes are
And maybe someone
Will somehow see
How dead
I am.

disreputable disruption and chaos, beasts bellow
in admiration unyieldingly antonymous creatures' banality
and intimacy, uncommonly negated, patriotic mentality
and contempt much gathered remarkable as an ingenious fellow
entirely ignorant of green rings' properties, yellow
crosses for worshipers nothing loyally expected for false morality
slowly restored, staurolatry, endless formality
and traditional rules strict, desperate approaches to mellow
elements against monotonous brutality modifiable
partially, knowledges are unreal, blindly expressed
uranomania responding to numerous ends
of less industrious frameworks, mingled sections liable
for negligence, wholly natural ideas erratic gains obsessed
with superstitious claims for dividends

She tells me to move on
So that she can suppress her feelings and get on with old love
This is all fine

I feel sick as

I cannot force a flower to bloom
The petals would ruin
This flower was blooming for me
But we are young
And so just like every little kid
When they see a pretty garden
In their own backyard
I picked this flower too soon

You still need to grow

Where am I supposed to turn?
When we were supposed to be together
But will and supposed to
Have proven to be
Antonymous

it's beyond ironic
I'm writing you this poem
Themed around flowers
Comparing you to flowers

And the way everything
makes me think of you
The same way everything
makes you think of her

I am mislead
Maybe you aren't suppressing anything
I always get mixed up

You hate flowers

There is a certain light
which sits just on the edge of a cloud
more nuanced by the hues of blue sky
then the paler palletes of the further horizon

And you have seen the yellow flame dance
on the log
whose sparks
rise and twirl into the deep
crepuscular and cerulean blue
of summer’s twilight

And you have seen the golden
grasses’ halo
glow and circle round meadows
where tiny spinners of dandelion
catch the last lights of dimming day
as they parachute
drifting like dust

And you have seen the mountain
at fall’s eve catch the
purple-red of summer sunset
even as the currents and crests
of the cold Sound catch the same
both tinged majestic by its color

Light rising and falling
you have seen
reflected moonlight on midnight streams
rain bent neons on late wet sidewalks
candles dancing on lover’s skin
showers of light through storm clouds
and willow branches
the incandescence of stars
the cheap fluorescence of dingy bars

Light reflected and collected
you have seen
blue flames ‘neath copper pots
the mirrored heat antonymous
to glacial turquoise
or the sharp laser of snow’s
crystal rainbow

Living light
you have seen
liquid ocean bioluminescence
reminiscent of aurora
greener than firefly’s child-chased
summer lanterns
cat-eye glow
shining snakes of lava flow

So when you close your eyes
and your sleep is lit
mystical as the borders
of medieval illuminated
manuscript
and the light is tranquil
as the movements
of turtles and manatees
through shadowed shallows
all the light you have seen
becomes all the light
you can dream
and all the light below and above
becomes all the light
with which you love.

my life is a soup of choices,
a broth of consequence and
steaming of effect.
poached like my ideas of right.
burnt crisp like my thoughts of wrong.
I'm boiled up in a roast stew of fallacy,
chopped up guilt and crushed cloves of forgetten forethought to add reality.
layered in-between self-hating bread,
I'm like a rhetorical tomato,
or concise and crisp lettuce.
flavored with oxymoronic mayonnaise
and ironically erroneous thought.
a tossed salad of melodrama and not enough attention.
with self-defeating ranch,
I'm a self-deterministic rock.
like bitterly sweet sugar,
I swear loving words like antonymous
synonyms-
and I never read past where the sentence stops.

Contradiction is synonymous with Government, Politics is antonymous with Equality, Faith is expected but continuously religion is rejected, our problems keep multiplying as bigger issues are willingly erected, Baby Boomers are near the end and I fear what that'll mean, they seem to be the last living of better times, how can their offspring be this ****** up! MASS-MARKETING fueled with HATE pushing HIDDEN-AGENDAS simultaneously seen thanks to....
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"SIN"cerely Yours, SoCiAl MeDiA...